


Agreement

by ultharkitty



Category: The Transformers (IDW Generation One), Transformers - All Media Types
Genre: M/M, Spark Sex, Tactile Sexual Interfacing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-21
Updated: 2013-05-21
Packaged: 2017-12-12 13:57:25
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,936
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/812337
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ultharkitty/pseuds/ultharkitty
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Written for this prompt on the kinkmeme: http://tfanonkink.livejournal.com/11776.html?thread=13244160#t13244160</p><p>Tailgate craves touch, but he isn't getting it from the right people. Cyclonus reaches the point of no return, and makes him an offer. </p><p>Contains tactile and spark sex, mention of violence and consent issues, hurt/comfort.</p><p>Massive thanks to naboru for helping me to name this, and for giving it a look over <3</p><p>* * *</p>
            </blockquote>





	Agreement

Tailgate was looking again, a glance full of longing from the hab-suite door. Was he about to speak? But no, he simply stood and stared in that hopeful sad way of his. 

Cyclonus pretended not to notice. It wasn't his place to comment on Tailgate's choice of friends, but he could at least spare the small bot the awkwardness and tension of an evening spent in each others' company. 

Eventually, Tailgate's hand fell from the jamb, and he slunk silently into the hall. 

Later, in the warm gloom of their recharge cycle, the single security light picked out new dents in Tailgate's thighs. He groaned and shifted, his arm flopping to his side. It revealed a scuff on his chest, harsh and deep, a glint of naked metal. It was the fifth set of injuries in ten days, the twelfth since Tailgate had saved Cyclonus' life and Cyclonus had repaid him with crass rejection. 

Perhaps if he'd been willing to compromise, if he'd done more than talk and listen, more than help scoop energon from the floor with shards of glass, things might have turned out differently. 

Or perhaps Tailgate was capable of making his own decisions, and his private life was nobody's business but his own.

He stirred again, the scratch gleamed. 

Cyclonus turned over and stared at the wall. 

* * *

The next day Tailgate moved slowly. His visor flashed when his right foot hit the ground, and the air rushed sharp and loud through his vents. He cringed, and Cyclonus tactfully kept his visual sensors trained on his data pad. 

“What are you reading?” Tailgate asked, his voice bright, and his little hands balling at his sides. 

“Calidera's _Interregnum_ ,” Cyclonus replied. 

Tailgate leant his weight to the left, and moved slowly forward. “What's it about?”

Of course, it was after his time. “Chaos,” Cyclonus said. “Politics.” When Tailgate only continued to stare at him in naked hope, Cyclonus continued. “It describes a society fragmented. Bereft of centralised leadership, various factions arise. The protagonist must choose between them, but no ideology is without its faults, and she is forced to compromise in order to find a new place in the world.” 

“It sounds heavy,” Tailgate said. He looked down at his in-tilted right foot, then up again. “Would you like to go get a drink? I don't mean right now, you're reading. But maybe later? And maybe after that you could teach me another song. If you'd like I mean, if you're not tired or bored or...” He shrugged, his voice cracking. “I'm sorry. I know you're busy.”

“Perhaps,” Cyclonus said, and instantly regretted it.

“I'll save you a seat!” Tailgate said. “Unless you want to come now. I mean, not to the bar, I'm meant to be helping Brainstorm take inventory in the chemicals store, and we were going to go out after, and, um... ”

Was it Brainstorm he'd been with the previous night? But no, Cyclonus had already decided: Tailgate was free to make his own mistakes. And besides, Cyclonus was no longer in any position of authority, let alone over lost and newly-branded Autobots. Tailgate was not his responsibility. 

“Swerve has some of that low-iron engex you like,” Tailgate said. 

“I said perhaps,” Cyclonus repeated. 

Tailgate nodded. After a long moment, be shuffled towards the door.

“You're limping,” Cyclonus said, and the minibot winced. 

“I'm OK,” Tailgate said, for once not looking back. “It's nothing. Just a... I transformed too fast yesterday, I knocked something out of place.” 

Liar, Cyclonus thought, but he'd caused Tailgate enough embarrassment for one morning. Still, there was a difference between probing into the cause, and providing a solution. “Let me look,” he said. 

“No, I, it's all right,” Tailgate said, but his engine stuttered, and he came to a halt. He turned, all his weight on his left foot. “It feels like something popped out of place,” he said. “You don't think I'll have to visit medibay do you?”

“Not if you remain still,” Cyclonus said. He swung his legs off the platform, and Tailgate hobbled over, quickly now and in obvious pain. “Sit,” Cyclonus directed. 

Tailgate hauled himself onto the slab. His legs dangled, and his joint made a nasty scraping sound. Cyclonus knelt on the floor and lay his hands on Tailgate's hip and knee. The minibot instantly relaxed, then tensed again as his visor lit up with some indecipherable emotion. 

Cyclonus felt around the upper leg. His new blunt fingers were less useful for this than his claws had been, but when he manipulated the joint, he could feel a familiar grinding. Without warning, he took a firm grip on Tailgate's pelvic span and thigh, and swiftly forced the leg back into its proper alignment.

Tailgate yelped, and his optics cut off for a long moment. He vented hard, frozen to the spot, and only moved again when Cyclonus lifted his hands. Tailgate's optics booted fast, his apertures spiralling wide under his visor. 

“Try it,” Cyclonus said. Perhaps the pain had been too much. Maybe he should have copied Chromedome's odd habit, and patted Tailgate on the helm. 

Tailgate shuffled to the edge of the slab. It was a fair bit higher than his own, having been adjusted for Cyclonus' proportions. He looked at the floor, then reached out his hand. “Um, could you maybe, uh...”

Cyclonus helped him down, and the grip of Tailgate's small fingers was tight. He trembled, and held on for longer than was strictly necessary. But he moved with less hesitation, his gait smoother than before. 

“Thankyou,” he said, fixing Cyclonus with that longing sad stare, before leaving once again. Cyclonus did not want to contemplate in what state he would return. 

* * *

When Cyclonus arrived at the bar, Tailgate was leaning against Atomizer. Trailcutter and Brainstorm sat in one-sided conversation at the same table.

Tailgate waved. “Hey, Cyclonus!” 

Cyclonus nodded acknowledgement and, feeling that his part in the exchange was over, went to his regular secluded spot at the far end of the bar. 

In his peripheral vision, he saw Atomizer pull Tailgate closer. Tailgate squirmed, his optics clearly on Cyclonus. But he didn't get up, and he didn't protest as Atomizer tugged him onto his lap. Trailcutter slapped Atomizer on the shoulder, and said something in a harsh, inebriated tone that Cyclonus couldn't make out against the background din. Another pair of Autobots slid into the booth: Whirl with a mech Cyclonus didn't recognise. The unfamiliar mech petted Tailgate on the helm. 

“What can I do you for?” Swerve said, planting himself firmly in Cyclonus' field of vision. “I've got black label, blue label, pink label, and an experimental distillation I'm calling Bye Bye Mr Higher Cognitive Function.”

“The usual,” Cyclonus said. On Atomizer's lap, Tailgate was the centre of attention. 

“One black label with added sparkly bits coming up,” Swerve said, and his grin faltered at Cyclonus' expression. “I'm kidding, I'm kidding! One blue label, hold the dry ice.”

Tailgate glanced his way again, but Brainstorm leaned in close, and began to stroke the smaller mech's chest. It was vulgar, but Tailgate did not appear distressed, and it was his business if he wanted to make a fool of himself in public. Or, Cyclonus thought, as Whirl of all people hauled Tailgate into his own lap, if he wanted to make a toy of himself. 

“Sickening, ain't it?” Swerve said. “Of all the bars in all the galaxy, all the pervy minibot fanciers have to come into mine, and I'm working.” He pushed Cyclonus' drink towards him, and Cyclonus forcibly changed the angle of his neck. Tailgate vanished from his peripheral vision. Unfortunately the itch in his fingers and the tingling burn in his circuits remained. But that, he thought, was what engex was for. 

Swerve bounced off to his next customer, and Cyclonus settled into a round of long slow sips, and trying not to think. It wasn't easy. Every lull in the bar's general clamour brought him a new giggle or gasp of surprise from Tailgate, a laugh from the others at his table, a ringing clatter of metal. 

“My turn tonight,” a cheerful voice announced, and Brainstorm cut in with, “Nope, he's ours, we had a deal.”

“What about me?” Whirl protested, and Cyclonus couldn't stop himself from bringing them back into his field of vision once more. 

Tailgate sat again with Atomizer, the argument passing right over his head.

Whirl elbowed him in the side and pinched the tire at his shoulder. He flinched, clearly discomforted, but Atomizer stroked his arms and he seemed to relax. Then Whirl squeezed harder, and said something that made Brainstorm whoop and Tailgate shrink in on himself. But the minibot nodded, and reached up to touch the casing of Whirl's single optic. 

Cyclonus could feel himself approach the tipping point. It occurred in the final fifth of the glass of engex, when Tailgate was lifted from Atomizer's lap, while Trailcutter griped and Whirl crowed, and Brainstorm helped himself to a good handful of wheel. 

Cyclonus stood. Abandoning the dregs of his drink, he stalked over to Tailgate's table.

“Cyclonus!” Tailgate was the only person happy to see him. But the worst anyone did was grumble and glare as Cyclonus lifted Tailgate from the web of grasping arms, and carried him out of the bar. 

* * *

“Why?” Cyclonus said. He would have liked to have deposited Tailgate on his own recharge slab, but the little mech had clung so hard it would have been an effort to dislodge him. So Cyclonus sat up, his back against the wall, with Tailgate nestled against his side. 

“Because,” Tailgate said. He shuddered, and wriggled in tighter. “I don't expect you to understand. It's stupid.”

Cyclonus brought his forearm across Tailgate's lap, attempting to get more comfortable. Tailgate grabbed a hold of him, and the little bot's engine calmed to a gentle purr. 

Cyclonus allowed the contact. “Try me,” he said. 

Tailgate fiddled with the edge of Cyclonus' wrist. “It _is_ stupid,” he said. “No-one else has this... this _need_. They... You don't care if no-one wants to be with you.” He cringed. 

Cyclonus shrugged; it wasn't something that naturally occurred to him. “Not everyone appreciates solitude,” he said. 

Tailgate booted his vocal processors a few times before anything else came out. Eventually, he managed a creaking whisper. “I don't want to be alone. I don't like it. I... I like it when people touch me, that's all.”” 

“Is that why...” Cyclonus didn't want to finish the sentence.

“I want to matter.” Tailgate sighed, and it consumed his whole body. “I want people to like me. I... I can't be left alone again, I just can't. I want... wanted someone to want me.”

“You were indiscriminate.” It wasn't Cyclonus' place to judge, but Tailgate _had_ been indiscriminate, and an unscrupulous few had taken advantage. Cyclonus may have lacked authority, not to mention responsibility for the Autobot's welfare, but there were some things he could not overlook. 

Tailgate wriggled until could look Cyclonus in the eye. “How else should I have been?” he said. “They like me, they want me.”

“They hurt you,” Cyclonus said. 

“It got out of control,” Tailgate said, his optics wide and pleading. “That's all. They didn't mean to, they just... you know, they like it rough. Some people do.”

Cyclonus focused on that bright blue light, anchoring himself to the present; this was no time to think of Galvatron. “You don't,” he commented. 

Tailgate slumped. “I have to try,” he said, and his grip tightened on Cyclonus' arm.

“Why?” Cyclonus demanded.

“What do you mean why? If I don't, they won't... want to be with me any more. I'll be like Swerve, always there and never wanted.”

Cyclonus forbore to comment, and Tailgate's energy field rippled with shame.

“I'll learn to like it,” Tailgate said. “Eventually.” He wrapped his arms around Cyclonus' forearm. 

“And if you don't?”

“Then I'll pretend!”

Cyclonus sighed. “That is neither appropriate nor desirable.”

“How else can it be?” Tailgate howled. His head flopped forward, and he let out a cry of anguish against Cyclonus' arm. 

“It can be easier,” Cyclonus said, and he could feel the pent up charge from the engex loosening his vocaliser. “Safer.” He nudged Tailgate's head, encouraging him to look up. “I have a solution,” he said. 

“What...” Tailgate's engine cut out entirely. “What do you mean?”

It was at one foolish and logical, and driven by protocols of leadership Cyclonus had thought dormant. “Stay here,” he said, “with me. Do not go back to them, and I will give you what you need.”

Tailgate's optics flickered, and his head ducked a little way inside his hood. “I...” His energy field screamed his need, but there was something else, and Cyclonus couldn't work out what. “Please,” Tailgate said. “Please, I want you so much. Whatever you like, whatever you want me to be, I'll be that for you. You... you can hurt me if you want, if that... if you like that. Just please keep holding me.”

“Hurt you?” 

“If you need to,” Tailgate said. “Do what you like, I don't care. Just hold me after. Like... Like Chromedome holds Rewind. Please.”

“I do not derive pleasure from inflicting pain,” Cyclonus said. Not even in battle, where the thrill of victory had waned to nothing in the passing of the centuries. 

“If I annoy you,” Tailgate began, and it was as though the cloud of engex parted. 

“No,” Cyclonus said, as every incident of disrespect flashed into his short term memory: his rough treatment of Tailgate, his dismissive words, the time he had struck the minibot simply for attempting to strike him. “I will not excuse my behaviour,” he said, “but neither will I repeat it. I will give you what you need, on the understanding that you do not return to those who treated you with disrespect.”

“I won't,” Tailgate said in a small voice. “Please, can I...” He pushed at Cyclonus' arm, and Cyclonus gave him the space to move. He straddled Cyclonus' lap, hands on his shoulders, and knees tight to Cyclonus' waist. “You were... I really liked it, in the bar. You were amazing. Please touch me?” 

“Like this?” Cyclonus began to stroke him, starting with his helm, and working his way down. Tailgate arched against his chest, and the heat of him tugged at Cyclonus' spark. 

“Yes, oh scrap yes, like that!” Tailgate gasped, then he sighed, his pleasure echoing through his energy field. Cyclonus ran his hands over the small bot's waist and thighs, over the planes of his aft and the pert curve of the small of his back. His seams crackled, static building and discharging in neat little cycles with the passage of Cyclonus' palms. Tailgate nuzzled his chest, his small engine revving hard, his vents coming faster and warmer. 

His white hands clenched and unclenched in an unconscious rhythm, and he shivered as Cyclonus encircled his waist, thumbs stroking lightly over the seams at the base of his chest. 

It had been a very long while since his last interface, and Cyclonus did not miss it. But Tailgate squirmed and moaned in transparent need, his visor alternately blank and a star-burst of brightest blue, and Cyclonus would not deny him. 

With a hand on Tailgate's back, Cyclonus held him upright, teasing the seams from his sternum to his delicate throat. His planes and angles were well made, his paint smooth and new. Tailgate leaned up and held his mask to Cyclonus' cheek while his hands quivered and his armour split along the centre of his chest. 

Cyclonus slipped a thumb into the gap and Tailgate clasped at his arms. Gently, Cyclonus eased the plates apart, feeling them slide smoothly back, each behind the next. Blue light bleached his armour, and Tailgate stroked his chest, following the swaying, wavering patterns with his hands. 

“Please!” Tailgate panted. “Please, I need this, I need you.”

Slipping a hand beneath his aft, Cyclonus lifted him, and Tailgate grabbed a hold of his helm, one hand wrapped around his single surviving horn. 

“Please,” Tailgate whispered, and Cyclonus pressed his lips to the molten hot surface of the Autobot's spark. 

Tailgate was incoherent, a mess of words and noises bubbling from his vocal processors. He shivered and whined and begged for more. His energy field flared, his spark whirled. The corona swelled, and Cyclonus lapped out his tongue, crackling energy filling his mouth, spreading a warmth and thrill the mirror of that which had already consumed Tailgate's entire body. 

Tailgate stiffened and groaned, and the overload crashed through him. His spark flared, the energy pouring into Cyclonus, a tsunami that he found he was not keen to quell. He licked the ornate casing, delicate sensor clusters singing at his touch. Tailgate moaned anew with a flick of Cyclonus' tongue, heaving for air, until eventually the spark again waned to its normal state, and the armour expanded to cover it over. 

Cyclonus lay himself down, and pulled Tailgate over his chest. “Is that what you wanted?” he said, and was surprised at the warmth in his voice.

Tailgate murmured a reply, an affirmative with no coherent words. Drowsy and warm, he was the picture of contentment, and Cyclonus wondered if he would drift into recharge. But he remained awake, and after a while he folded his arms beneath his head, and fixed Cyclonus with that longing gaze. 

“Can I stay?” he asked. “I mean, like this, with you, now.”

“We have an agreement,” Cyclonus said quietly. He stroked Tailgate's back, making the minibot squirm. “Yes, you may stay.”


End file.
